You Spin Me right round
Last Wednesday, I sat up towards the end of the yoga class I was teaching and came to a stop. The world, on the other hand, kept going. I felt an intense lightheadedness followed by this surreal feeling that the room would never be still again. I clung to the floor for dear life as the lovely students in my class looked on in horror. I managed to sputter the words, "I think... vertigo," recognizing the signs as described by a student in that very class a year ago.
Vertigo is probably one of the worst sensations I’ve ever felt, and I have been electrocuted. It isn’t exactly painful; it feels like a special kind of torture that one would hope is reserved for the most wicked among us. The truth is, I wouldn’t wish this sensation on my worst enemy or yours. Your world spins and you have no choice but to hold on and pray it stops as quickly as it came. I felt completely helpless and terrified, so it was lucky for me that three of the students in class that day had experienced vertigo themselves, and they leapt into action, comforting me and calling my partner for help.
After the spinning finally ceased, I figured I would give it a day and then go back to my normal routine. Oh, how naïve I was. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed three days after the initial attack, having attempted a manual maneuver meant to help ease the symptoms. I was still no better and after going through the treatment, which triggered another episode, I felt as bad or even worse than when it first happened. I sat, feeling totally defeated, and I sobbed. I cried for what felt like an hour, lamenting to my supportive partner about how this felt like torture and how angry I was that I had to take time off. I had cancelled my classes for the rest of the week at the behest of my partner. I was also angry with myself for being so stupid. I thought "I was stupidly moving up and down from my mat several times, with no regard for how fragile this shell can be." After I finished my very necessary pity party, table for one, I dried my eyes and noticed that I felt a little better.
The room was still a bit wobbly and I couldn’t lie down without feeling sick, but I felt a release. I realized in that moment that I was grieving. I had been in full denial when it first happened, stubbornly refusing help and assuring anyone who asked that I was fine. In reality, I was a mess and I was struggling.
From denial, I moved swiftly onto anger, directed mostly at myself, and I even tried a little bargaining that took the shape of trying to convince my partner that I could teach even though I was walking and sitting at a noticeable 60 degree angle. After speeding through the first three, I landed squarely on the second-to-last stage, depression. I sat and wallowed all day after my failed attempt to help myself, and I was feeling properly down in the dumps. After my big cry and recognizing that this was going to be a process, I made myself a promise that I was going to treat myself with Ahimsa, or loving kindness. I was going to be gentle and compassionate towards myself the way I would be with any of my students, partner, family, and friends.
News flash, it worked! I am here three days later, and I have made it to the final stage. I have accepted my fate and, more importantly, I accepted that this was not my fault. I am also feeling a lot better physically. What they don’t tell you is that doing the maneuver I mentioned earlier can make it a whole lot worse and then a whole lot better. My world is spinning a lot less now, and I am even back to teaching. I am going slow and I am very lucky to have understanding students who do not mind that I can’t lie down yet.
I am not sure when the symptoms will be completely gone, but I know that this experience has been humbling. My world keeps on spinning and I don’t want to get off.
